


Wicked Cradle

by wordywarrior



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-11 18:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordywarrior/pseuds/wordywarrior
Summary: For: @buckygrantbarnes Writing ChallengePairing: Bucky x Female ReaderPrompt: Sit on my lap.





	Wicked Cradle

**Author's Note:**

> For: @buckygrantbarnes Writing Challenge  
Pairing: Bucky x Female Reader  
Prompt: Sit on my lap.

The rattle of mugs and the crunch of discarded peanut shells. Snap of a cue and clack of the billiards as they rolled across stained, over-worn green felt. Smoke swirling upwards toward the ceiling, the stench mixed with sweat, leather, and stale beer.

A juke box in the corner that had long ago lost luster, but somehow, still managed to play. It had just switched from some sort of lighthearted bop to something with a hard edge. Gritty and indiscernible, but more befitting the ambiance, and well received by all-too-frequent patrons.

It was your job to notice these things – to be aware of every shoulder roll and weight shift, of any remark that could be taken for insult, of darting eyes and twitchy-fingers. Having Bucky’s back wasn’t something you did figuratively, but literally, and you did so by faking the need to use the ladies so you could case the joint.

When you walked back toward the table, you realized the dynamic had changed. The chair you’d vacated was now occupied by a cardboard box, but the mark didn’t seem as keen to part with it as he’d made it seem no less than five minutes earlier. Bucky’s relaxed posture hadn’t changed, but there was a tick in his jaw that suggested things had taken an unpleasant turn. 

At that moment, you _really _didn’t like the look of the guy; he was cagey and had pulled on his jacket too many times for your liking. Lighter on the table and a pack of cigarettes with a freshly broken seal – he wasn’t reaching for a smoke. The waitress had been paid for the last round, which negated cash.

This was your first assignment, something bad was going to happen, and you knew it.

“Shit,” you sighed.

Butterfly knife and a handgun – you’d clocked them both earlier and now, you knew the guy was just itching to use one or both of them. You didn’t miss the subtle flare of Bucky’s eyes as you approached; you made sure to give a couple of slow blinks to convey you knew trouble brewed, and would follow his lead. Since he called the shots, he made the choice – either let it play, or abort the mission entirely.

A scrape of his bionic hand over his jaw was the signal for you to engage.

“Well, my chair seems occupied,” you remarked off-handedly. 

When the mark made no indication of allowing you to have the seat back, Bucky turned slowly, and crooked a finger.

** _“Sit on my lap.”_ **

This time, it was your eyes that flared, but you didn’t hesitate. You took a side-saddle approach, lowered yourself down onto his thighs, and did your best not to jump when his flesh hand clamped down on your waist and yanked you closer.

That was more unnerving than the armed man across from you.

“Another round or are we doing this?”

Bucky’s inquiry resulted in narrowed eyes and a question of whether or not you had someplace better to be. There was a hard squeeze and push to your right hip, which prompted you to shift position, face the man head on, and rest your elbows on the table. This little lap dance was a tactic, and you got the message when you felt a slight tug on the holster you’d hidden at the base of your spine.

“Make the exchange and you’ll walk out of here a rich man,” Bucky said bluntly. “Or don’t…”

Most people looking to unload a hot item would’ve had no qualms giving it up when faced with both a windfall and a not-so-subtle threat. However, there was a look shared between the mark and the two goons he’d brought with him, and it suggested this had been a set up. They more than likely lured you and Bucky to their turf to rob and kill you, and then, try to sell to an even higher bidder.

It had taken three days to get into town and you and Bucky waited double that for the guy to finally grace you with his presence. You were most certainly _not_ going to die in the middle of the boonies in some shithole bar with watered down beer and exceedingly terrible taste in music. You’d come too far to see it all go to waste and you’d be damned if some asshole with delusions of grandeur was going to take you out.

Tapping on the small of your back – a warning if there ever was one. 

A heavy palm slid along your thigh and you felt the handle of the karambit knife when it was pressed into the soft flesh. As soon as you looped your left index finger into the safety ring, you leaned back just enough to shield Bucky, and be clear of the table.

The blade arced through the air, met flesh, and caused blood to spray. A howl of pain was heard above the music and drew attention. A hard shove to the table; it flipped and prevented the other two from being able to raise their guns.

You didn’t bother getting up from Bucky’s lap – you simply pressed your chest to your knees and gave him a clear line of sight. Some people hit the deck. Others started throwing punches. In the ensuing chaos that followed, Bucky was deadly accurate. Nobody knew where the shots came from.

It would look like the three men had been killed in a bar brawl. 

You snatched up the bag of cash and the package before leading the way toward an unmanned, back exit. A loop around the building saw you both to the motorcycles, which had been parked at a safe distance.

“Should’ve known something was up when he changed locations last minute,” he muttered as you rifled through the box. “Come on, we need to be gone before the cops arrive.”

Beneath layers of unnecessary bubble wrap, packing popcorn, and tissue paper – that’s where you found the thumb drive.

“Hey!” you called out as you let it sail through the air toward him. 

Bucky caught it one-handed and snorted, “Well, I’ll be damned. He really was as stupid as he looked.”

You grinned and hopped on your bike. As you both headed on down the road, you were filled with adrenaline and euphoria.

You knew you were going to like this. 

* * *

The world still needed to be brought back to some semblance of order and would take all sorts of hands on deck to see things put right.

There were people like Sam and the other Avengers – shiny, public faces, who could get away with dirty deeds in the daylight because the lines between good and evil were clearer when the cameras were rolling and the public was watching. They got parades and lunch boxes and were given keys to cities.

You didn’t work in the light.

And you fucking hated parades.

This was a bloody, painful, dirty job, but you’d been there and done that before. You’d been one of the few women to qualify for Special Forces and you’d more than earned that Green Beret. All it had taken was one, stupid grunt to fuck it all up. “Friendly fire” that had resulted in a shoulder wound, which had caused irreparable nerve damage, and partial immobility in your right hand. It meant you were no longer fit for field duty, and since you were not cut out to be a desk jockey, you’d swallowed the bitter pill, and accepted the honorable discharge.

You’d met Sam through Veterans Affairs. He’d given you a place to belong and was more than likely the only reason you weren’t in jail or dead. He also convinced you a left hand was just as capable and got you to work on making it just as formidable as the right had once been.

Not long after the second snap, he’d recruited you – said he needed the type of help only you could provide. And when Sam Wilson called…

The mission at the bar yielded more than favorable results, so, it was no surprise you’d been permanently paired with Bucky. Just because he wasn’t “_Soldat”_ anymore didn’t mean he was any less lethal, and Sam didn’t believe in letting talent go to waste, even if your aim wasn’t as accurate as it used to be. You and Bucky were both sharp-shooters, indifferent to anything but the task at hand, and for the past six months, the job – whatever it was – _always_ got done.

“Hold still.”

You gritted your teeth and huffed, “I _am_ holding still.”

Bucky’s eyes were barely open because they were both swollen and bloodshot, but the glare was there all the same. The ride through the desert had taken a toll, but that had been nothing compared to the absolute viper’s nest you’d both just barely escaped from.

Dealers had been peddling wares they’d cleverly named _Quantum Realm _– a potent, hallucinogenic concoction with traces of biological specimens collected from who the hell knows what planet, and it was killing people. That’s what you and Bucky had been sent to investigate and put a stop to. Intel had said it was low level, but in actuality, it had been a high-tech lab and a full-on, fully-armed cartel. 

You both packed a lot of heat, but it hadn’t been enough. After your hands were too blood-soaked for knives, you’d resulted to fists. It had gone on so long and you’d gotten tired, which meant when you took the last opponent down, you’d gone right down with him; landed flat on your back, with over two-hundred pounds of dead weight on top of you, and you had the bruised ribs, sliced up flesh, and dislocated shoulder to prove it. Bucky had managed to salvage two samples of the stuff to send back to headquarters before the lab was lit up and left to burn. 

Now, you were in some ramshackle of a place that had the audacity to call itself a hotel. One room, if that’s what it was, and one mattress neither of you went near because it was riddled with bed-bugs.

The med-kit was at the ready; gauze, tape, scissors, butterfly bandages, peroxide, a make-shift sling… No high-tech healing out on the open road. As you gulped down pain pills and booze, you weren’t sure if you’d gotten lucky that your dislocated shoulder was not the same one that you had injured previously. 

“Only you would manage to fall on the one table that had all the vials,” he muttered.

You reached for the bottle of whiskey, took a long pull, and flipped him the bird just inches from his unfocused eyes. He responded by prodding your wounded arm with his finger.

“Dick,” you hissed.

“Wuss,” Bucky retorted.

When the two of you weren’t kicking other people’s asses, you were busting each other’s balls, or patching each other up. The last time, you had taken care of him – cleaned out a particularly nasty gash he’d sustained on the back of his thigh, sewed him up, and helped him hobble to bed afterward.

You envied how quickly he bounced back from it all.

Bucky was jealous you could numb the pain and he couldn’t.

He put your shoulder back where it belonged and helped you into the sling as best he could. The only sturdy piece of furniture in the room was a chair next to the wobbly dresser, but even that groaned in protest when Bucky lowered himself into it. With your arm immobilized, he had to cut open the back of your shirt to get at the rest of the injuries. After taking care of the lower back, he informed you that you’d have to **_sit on his lap_**so he could reach the shoulders.

“You get off on playing Santa?” you wondered tartly, tongue thick and loose with alcohol and meds. 

“You can’t lay down and I can’t see more than six inches in front of me,” he remarked flatly.

A precarious and very uncomfortable perch, and not just because your shoulder throbbed and he was using tweezers to dig shards of glass out of your skin. With his breath fanning across the back of your neck and his surprisingly delicate touch smoothing bandages over your skin, you found yourself unnerved for the second time.

“We’ll have to ditch the bikes,” Bucky asserted. “You can’t ride with your arm like this.”

You took another hit off the bottle and nodded, but didn’t say anything. There was another long stretch of quiet and then, you felt it. Fingertips moved your hair aside and explored; it was haphazard – an effort to both feel and see if any glass had been missed – and you knew the minute he found the tattoo stamped just behind your earlobe, because you could feel his slow exhale as he traced the pattern.

Black ink. A long-range bullet and beneath it, tiny tally marks. Too many tally marks… 

Bucky’s voice was raspy when he said, _“shoot to kill,”_ and surprisingly – or maybe not so surprisingly – absent judgement.

And for some, strange reason – you appreciated that. 

* * *

Wildly shaped, neon-colored straws sticking out of cocoanuts. Suntan lotion, salty ocean breeze, and hot sand. Steel drums and jet skis. Seafood pulled fresh from the water and an ever-smiling staff. The sun sinking, but lighting up the sky in streaming colors of pale purple, blue, pink, and yellow.

It was paradise.

Bucky let out an annoyed grunt, “Screw this. I’m not waiting.”

You refocused the binoculars and sighed, “Well, _somebody’s_ fucking cranky. Do you need to go get laid or something?”

“Why, you offering?”

The question was nothing more than a snarl and you counted yourself lucky to already have sunburnt cheeks. While you could function with some semblance of decorum on little to no sleep, Bucky absolutely could not. He turned into a downright cantankerous old man when he was tired, and knew you shouldn’t have prodded him, but you just couldn’t help it.

Ever since the night he’d found the tattoo two months ago, the two of you had been dancing around something – each other, the unspoken, the fucking campfire – whatever. For two decisive people, you both seemed incapable of either resetting the boundaries or crossing the line. You both needed to get it out of your systems, just not necessarily with each other…

Instead of dwelling, you kept your eyes on the target. A moment later, the woman you’d both been watching non-stop for nearly three days finally emerged from her room, and just like that, the tension was gone, and you both were out the door.

This time, you and Bucky were after arms dealers who were making otherworldly weapons and selling them on the black market. The island was being used to smuggle supplies in and product out, but that’s not where the buck stopped. Sam wanted to take out the entire operation and that meant this was a capture and hand-off mission.

The problem you faced was getting close enough; the woman had two body guards who stuck to her like glue wherever she went. Luckily for you, the target had an easily established pattern of behavior. Breakfast on the patio at sunrise, and then, back inside. Lunch at noon precisely, and right after, exactly twenty-two minutes of tanning on the beach. Back to her room for a swim in the private pool, and then, back inside, and she wouldn’t emerge again until after nightfall. 

The sky was inky black and most of the island’s guests were either at dinner or getting ready for the late-night festivities. With the window of opportunity closing, you hustled to the ice machine, bucket in hand, and hastily filled it. Sandals, jean shorts, and a touristy t-shirt – you looked the part of a vacationer and were ready to play it. Bucky had stationed himself on the sidewalk and pretended to be occupied with texting; when he signaled, the trio rounded the corner, you turned, and set it in motion.

A faux trip and flying ice chips gave you the excuse to reach out with both hands and grab for the guard’s arms. The rings you wore on each index finger were pressure engaged, and the needles that delivered the sedative were so small, they didn’t even feel it. You blurted out apologies that never got brushed off; the guards dropped within seconds, and you wasted no time in taking down the target.

Everybody on the island employed four-wheelers to get around, which was the same mode of transportation the extraction team used when they pulled up to the side of the building sixty seconds later. The small trailers hitched to the back, normally used to haul beach gear and party supplies, was where the bodies were secreted away. The whole thing had taken less than three minutes.

After having been up for nearly 72 hours straight, both you and Bucky were out of it, and needed sleep. You didn’t even say anything to each other as you headed for your separate rooms, and as soon as your head hit the pillow, you were out cold.

When you woke, it was to a text from Sam, and a quick check of the time showed it was past one in the morning. He confirmed the jet had crossed over the right waterline and it was mission accomplished. When you asked what was on deck, he said two days of rest and relaxation, and then, you and Bucky were being sent across the pond. After shooting back a _‘roger that,’_ you got up, and hit the showers.

Too hungry to linger, you cleaned up in a hurry, dressed, and ordered room service. After over indulging on both the food and the booze, you had nothing else to do, and didn’t feel at all guilty when you crawled right back into bed.

_Pain – burning, excruciating, and debilitating. Blood on your hands and it was your own this time. _

_Someone barked for a fucking medic. The white, polished floor began to turn red. _

_Your trigger finger was numb. _

_“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!”_

Tequila before bed was always a mistake.

You woke up to your own screams and the revelry taking place on the beach outside was not enough to smother the sounds. Seconds later, the door that adjoined your room to Bucky’s flew open, and he was there, gun drawn, and ready to throw down.

“Nightmare,” you half-panted, half-hiccupped.

The gun’s muzzle was lowered, “You okay?”

You said yes. He knew it was a lie.

You’d been given his file and he’d been given yours, and there had been no need for conversation. It wasn’t the same, but it was all next level shit, and you both did your best not to bring it onto the job. You’d gone into his room before with guns blazing and this wasn’t the first time Bucky had drawn down in the middle of the night for you. That was the thing about practically living side-by-side with someone for a year – the truth was always _known_, even if nobody wanted it _seen_.

The gun was put on the nightstand. The mattress dipped. Unbidden tears drip-dropped before the waterfall. Bucky didn’t say anything – just wrapped you up in all that unearthly strength and held tight. It wasn’t until sometime after the buckets had been emptied that you realized your head was on his chest and he was cradling you in his arms. When you apologized and tried to move, he tightened his grip, and trailed a hand up and down your spine.

“You’re still shaking,” Bucky murmured. “Just **sit on my lap** and let me hold you.”

* * *

Untouched land and rolling hills that went on for miles and miles. Peaks and valleys that blended seamlessly with mountains and iced-over streams. Delicate snowflakes which turned into a raging storm that froze the windows and prompted the need for more blankets.

Sam had taken the show on the road and it had gone international, which meant you were going places you’d never been to before and Bucky sometimes found himself on old stomping grounds. A whole lot of postcard-worthy scenery was the backdrop of this mission, but there would be no catching bad guys in this weather. 

A cabin in the woods, a roaring fire, and a bearskin rug – it was stereotypically funny until it wasn’t.

It had only been five days, but it was close quarters, and the walls were steadily closing in.

One bedroom meant one bed, which instigated verbal sparring. Bucky didn’t like the idea of you sleeping so close to the front door, and you knew he was too big for the couch, and would be even crankier than usual if he didn’t get at least a few hours of decent shuteye.

One bathroom that was nothing more than a toilet, a too-small shower stall, and a pedestal sink – not that big of a deal in the grand scheme of things, but there was never enough hot water, and absolutely no room to change clothes. That meant a lot of tight towel holding and scurrying for privacy until a schedule was established to avoid the awkwardness. 

There was enough food for at least a month, but the kitchenette where grub and caffeine were kept was a communal space rife with tension. Bucky liked to drink his morning coffee standing at the sink in nothing but his boxers. You couldn’t sleep with pants on, which meant when he got up in the middle of the night, he got to see exactly what kind of underwear you preferred. It wasn’t really a problem until Bucky ate all the good cookies, and the spat it instigated had been heated, but no blood was drawn.

No television. Radio silence. No escape.

A lot of re-read magazines and unnecessary weapons maintenance. One deck of cards, lost to the fire after an argument that had ended with Bucky going outside for a long time and you prowling the closet that was your temporary home because he’d sucked up all the free fucking air and had left none for you.

This was precisely the reason why you had never lived with anyone and why you and Bucky always had separate rooms. You worked well together, but only if there was space between. The vulnerability and closeness on the island had been a fluke; you’d had a bad dream, allowed yourself to be held, and chalked up the weakness to exhaustion and too much booze.

You’d eventually stopped pacing and fixated your gaze on the window. The cabin door swung open, letting in a burst of frigid air before it was slammed shut. You didn’t flinch or acknowledge his return. Heavy footsteps and then, he was right there, a blurred shape reflected in the glass next to you, and you refused to look at him.

Bucky hadn’t bothered with a coat or gloves, which meant his fingers were ice cold when they wrapped vice like around the back of your neck. The protest on the tip of your tongue was going to be scathing, but you didn’t get the chance to show him just how white-hot _your_ rage could be, because his other hand clamped down hard over your mouth, and rendered you speechless.

“Take off your clothes.”

Somehow, it was both a command and a plea, soft and hard-edged – surrender and apology and longing conveyed in just four words. A tone that suggested there’d been enough nonsense, denial, tip-toeing around, and pretending the only thing that mattered was the job when really, it was this – _this_ is what mattered.

The weird fucking connection that made you both bounce of the walls because it had been established almost instantly and had gone ignored. The knowledge of darkness and scars and tally marks and the acceptance of it all. The willingness to unleash hell because that’s what having someone’s back meant in this new world. Bucky, finally his own man, untethered now because he’d come to the end of some line, but not _the_ line, and understood there was more waiting for him. You, coming to the realization you’d never been broken, just bruised, and the past no more defined you than it did him.

Your eyes locked with his in the window and a hoodie zipper being lowered had never sounded so loud. 

That was how it started. First your clothes and then his. As pieces of fabric were discarded, breathing got harsher, and hands lost steadiness. The first kiss wasn’t to your lips, but to the spot just behind your ear, right over your tattoo, and it made you tremble. Bucky turned you away from the window, cupped your jaw, and tilted your head up with his thumbs.

Pads of fingers brushed across your bottom lip before his mouth met yours. Bucky’s touch no longer chilled, but it was still shiver-inducing, and the groan he let out when the kiss deepened was filled with relief. His tongue tasted of coffee and sin and like nothing you imagined, but knew you always wanted.

Standing in the middle of the living room – bodies pressed tight together, closer than ever before, skin on skin contact. His teeth scraping along your neck and your nails digging into his abs. Bucky’s hand between your legs and yours wrapped around him, slow and careful at first, but learning quickly because that’s just how the two of you did things together. Straining and straining until he brought you, moaning and whimpering and barely able to keep upright. 

Ten steps to the bedroom was ten steps too far. The couch was closer and Bucky walked backwards, hands on your hips and tongue in your mouth to keep you close. When he sat, you got a brief glimpse of what this man – this cautious, controlled, confounding man – looked like when he was on the edge of being undone. Wild eyes and swollen mouth. Hair in disarray, stomach clenched tight, arousal and want and need bleeding from every pore because of what he’d done to you and what you were about to do to him.

“Come ‘ere,” he growled, words heated, low, and raw. “Come ‘ere and **_sit on my lap_**.” 

This time, you didn’t just sit – you straddled. You dug your hands in his hair and poured your soul into his mouth. Sinking down slow, you took him inside, filled yourself with him and all that entailed. Bucky wanted you to get yours so, you took it. Then, he gave you more.

Facedown on the couch, fingers toying between your legs, hips snapping and hitting just the right spot. On the bearskin rug, legs around his shoulders, because he wanted to watch you come again – just one more time, just for him, because he wasn’t aware you were capable of making such pretty sounds, and he enjoyed hearing them. Back up into his lap, all under his control, him chuckling in your ear because he’d wrung another one out and you were pretty sure you were dying.

When Bucky said he was going to come, it was with his thumb on your clit, and commanding words that dripped both sweetly and filthily. He panted that you were partners and if he was coming, you were coming, and he was going to have one more out of you whether you liked it or not, but he knew you liked it, so, you were going to give it up, and let him have it…

Your hoarse cry echoed through the air and he chanted your name like a prayer. When Bucky stilled and you looked up into his eyes, there was still heat there, but something else, too.

Awe and tenderness, fully and unabashedly exposed.

You liked that a lot.

* * *

It rained all the fucking time. Everything soggy and damp and muddy. A sky that only knew two colors – pearl gray and black. Visibility was a joke when the fog rolled in, which was pretty damn often on the coast. Lighthouses, galoshes, and umbrellas were everywhere and for good reason.

It had been six months since the mission at the cabin and now, instead of being snowed in, you were waterlogged. Happier – _much happier –_ but still… _Waterlogged_.

You’d been given a kill order and Sam had sounded like a wreck when he’d issued it, which tipped you to the fact that this was the first time he’d ever done this. This wasn’t about self-defense or justice after the fact; only resounding finality, and the cold comfort a swift death could bring. He didn’t want you to do this, but he needed you to, and his voice cracked with the apology of what he was asking for.

At first, it had just been whispers, but then, credible intel started rolling in. Hydra was trying to mobilize again, and even though it was just the dregs, it was enough to make everyone worry. The country was weak and still reeling, and like the snakes they were, Hydra wanted to poison it some more. If this new faction wasn’t dealt with quickly, there would be no telling just how far and how high up the evil would spread, and they couldn’t risk it. 

_“The world can’t afford to avenge itself – not again,”_ he’d said. When you replied, _“If that’s the case, then, there’s nothing to be sorry for,”_ the sigh Sam let out was one of resignation and relief.

Bucky’s stance on Hydra was clear – the only good Nazi was a dead Nazi, and he wanted in on the action. Sam had told him to stand down and it was the first time you’d ever seen the _Soldat_ side of him. Even with the deprogramming and the therapy and all the healing, it was still there – well beneath the surface, but still. Bucky was too close to this and you knew it, but when the day and time came…

You’d disarmed him of any long-range weapons, but you hadn’t left him behind.

“You touch this, I break your hand,” you warned him as you began to assemble your rifle. “You talk, I break your jaw. You move–”

“You break my legs,” he deadpanned, the corner of his mouth twisted up slightly. “Got it.”

There were other snipers covering other targets across the city, but this one was yours, and it was strange how easily it all came back. The nest. The rifle. The scope. Finding that space in your head where you could wait in utter stillness for hours because for you, it was one shot, one kill, and nothing less would do. Your left hand was now your dominate hand – had been for years – and you’d gotten in plenty of practice.

Data collected. Unclean rifle because you preferred a dirty gun for this. Careful breathing and even more careful follow through. Not satisfied until the gun was zeroed, which meant three, consecutive shots within a one-inch square at one-hundred yards. You knew the wind, your bullet, and the recoil. Back in the day, a thousand yards was nothing, and this, too, would be nothing.

And it was nothing.

The target was on the porch, but not clearly visible. Target had no family and was alone, which meant nobody would be traumatized. Target in sight and no civilians. Target acquired. Target eliminated. 

This time, a red tally mark, with Bucky watching while the ink was etched into your skin.

Back at the hotel, Bucky didn’t ask if you were okay, and he didn’t have to, because you’d felt absolutely no guilt this time. After you stored the rifle beneath the bed, he came up behind you, and gripped you tight around the waist.

“Damn, you’re beautiful,” he sighed as his hands roamed.

You laughed and leaned back against him, “Whole thing kinda turned you on, didn’t it?”

“Mmm,” Bucky murmured, palm running over the seam of your jeans before he worked open the button. “I’d fuck you into next week if you’d let me.” 

“I could go for that,” you moaned, all too eager to help guide his hand toward its intended destination.

He slid his fingers into your panties and teased, “I want a taste first.”

You weren’t even given the chance to take your rain-soaked clothes off. Bucky just spun you around, pushed you down on the bed, and yanked your pants and underwear past your calves. He peeled off his jacket and shirt, knelt down, and lifted your trapped legs up and over his head. His tongue slid along his lower lip, his eyes were already lust blown, and he didn’t bother with preamble.

It was more than a taste and he knew it. Bucky’s mouth did things to you; could make you see visions, speak in tongues, and scream obscenities, and he knew it. He got off on the way your body warred with itself, how it alternated between wanting more, and then, wanting it to stop, and then, right back to wanting, and then, begging, begging, begging…

You nearly cried with relief when he finally relented and unzipped his pants. Bucky didn’t waste time trying to help you free yourself of the knot of fabric around your ankles – he just pushed you up further on the bed and situated himself between your thighs again.

“Is this what you need?” Bucky taunted, punctuating his words with a deep, hard thrust.

Answering wasn’t optional because his tongue was in your mouth, the bed was squeaking, and he was fucking both your words and your brains right out of you.

And you loved him for it.

You loved him because he embraced everything about you, even the bits you hated most about yourself. You loved him because he put himself _and_ you first. You loved him because he was equal parts dirty, dirty man and old, romantic soul. You loved him because he never backed down and didn’t expect you to, either. You loved him because he was a man of his word. You loved him because he liked to use his fists and also liked to slow dance. You loved him because he could make you laugh in a way you hadn’t laughed since basic training. You loved him because he always made you coffee first and really put his back into it during make up sex.

You loved him because he really was your partner – in every sense of the word.

“Say it,” he demanded in your ear.

“I love you,” you whispered. “I love you, James.”

And when he said it back? Yeah – you _really_ liked that.


End file.
